Outsider's 11
by ConfuzzledAtLife
Summary: Eleven men, one thing in common: the goal of 150 million, split equally. You do the math. Your favourite characters in a way you've never seen them before. Are you in or out?
1. The Parole Board

**A/N**: This is AU, completely and utterly. I have taken the script of _Ocean's 11 _and chucked it together with all our favourite characters. Everybody will get a part.

I am not and will not abandon my other story. The reason this slightly stupid thing came into being is that with exams, stress of moving, and recently discovering I need to get my wisdom teeth out (I'm scared of surgery) I am quite stressed and everybody is coming out OOC in there. I'm having a break until I get less stressed, nothing more. I wrote this purely for kicks – I needed a pick me up.

Disclaimer: I don't own characters from the Outsiders or plot from Ocean's. Please don't sue.

X X X X

"Good morning."

"Good morning," Darry replied, managing to sound warm and friendly despite the early hour and sleepless nights.

"Please state your name for the record."

Darry clasped his hands before him and looked around the room in which he found himself sitting. It was large, probably so the person being interviewed – _him _– would become flustered at the sheer empty space, broken only by the scrutiny of the three officials sitting before him. What a joke. They'd have to do better to catch him out on his one chance to get out. "Darrel Ocean," he said coolly.

"Thank you, Mr Ocean," said the woman sitting in the centre seat of the three-chair long row. "The purpose of this meeting is to determine whether, if released, you are likely to break the law again. While this was your first conviction, you have been implicated, though never charged, in over a dozen other confidence schemes and frauds. What can you tell us about this?"

Darry gave the tiniest shrug of the shoulders, not big enough to look uncaring, simply a subtle move that showed he was being honest. He was good at what he did. "As you say, ma'am, I was never charged."

The lady shuffled her papers slightly. "Mr Ocean, what we're trying to find out is: was there a reason you chose to commit this crime, or was there a reason why you simply got caught this time?"

Darry fiddled with his fingers slightly, putting on a slightly more vulnerable front than before. He wanted them to believe this subject was difficult for him to discuss, not that he was lying. "My wife left me," he said. It was true that he was saddened by this, deeply so. He had loved her, but he knew one of her reasons for leaving was that he was not good at showing his emotion. He could fake emotion, oh yes, he was good at that; but when it came to true feelings, he had as tough an exterior as Bob Sheldon. Bob… he knew Bob. He knew him well. "I was upset," he continued in the same tone as before. He certainly did not want anger to show on his face, so he avoided his thoughts. "I got into a self destructive pattern."

"If released," said a man on the woman's right, "is it likely you would fall back into a similar pattern?"

Now Darry let a tiny, soft smile creep onto his face. "She already left me once. I don't think she'll do it again just for kicks."

He watched as the officials glanced at each other. _Still got it_, his mind whispered. He shushed it. "Mr Ocean, what do you think you would do if released?" asked the third official, the one who had been silent all this time.

Darry considered for a moment. "I don't know. How much do you guys make a year?"

X X X X

"Ocean, Darrel."

Darry stepped up to the counter and accepted his possessions from the guard, signing the form thrust under his nose that certified their release. "This came today for you," said the guard, placing an envelope on top of the folded suit. "Rest'll be forwarded to your parole officer."

The guard still standing behind Darry read the envelope over his shoulder. If there was one thing Darry wouldn't miss about prison, it was the invasion of personal space. "Those your lawyers?" he asked the man he was guarding, referring to the return address on the envelope.

"My wife's," Darry clarified as he slit the letter open with a nail and read the contents.

"What's it say?"

He supposed he could get angry at the guard, but he had learned long ago it was better to play it cool. And the information the letter contained certainly did not warrant a burst of anger. "I'm a free man," he said.

X X X X

Stupid bow tie… he never had learned how to do these things. He gave up, leaving it hanging around his neck as he toyed with the final part of his outfit, deciding whether or not to put it on.

His wedding ring.

Soda would probably kill him if he asked how to do a bow tie again, and he certainly wouldn't want to see Darry with it hanging on his neck like this. Oh well, Darry thought as he walked swiftly along the corridor towards the waiting doors, for once not barred to him. He slipped on the ring. Soda didn't even know he was out yet, and Darry knew he wouldn't bother checking in with the prison all the time on the off chance Darry would get out on parole, or escape. But at this level, you don't just escape. You escape, you get hunted for the rest of your days. You wait a little longer, bide your time, and you'll get to feel what Darry was feeling at this moment. The breeze tickled his skin in a way he had not appreciated for a long time, not since… not since she left him. It was an awful, overcast day, but there were no walls any longer. Darry could go where he liked.

And speaking about Soda…

Jail had given Darry the one thing he had never had enough of: time. He had had time to think, time to formulate several plans. He was not going to spend his time idly, and he was not going to linger any longer in the breeze. He began walking.

He would find Soda, kill him for not writing or visiting, apologize, then put a plan into action. He had several now; all he needed was to decide which would work best, and he could only do that after consulting with someone who had been free the past couple of months. Soda would know what was going on in the world, and Darry knew he would not have been idle for long.

But first, he had a few quick stops for personal benefits.

X X X X

Darry took a deep breath. Forget his previous thoughts – the true scent of freedom was not a soft breeze whispering through the trees. It was smoke wafting around the roof of a low-ceilinged room, it was the alcohol that permeated the air. He stepped up to a green table and handed the man several hundred-dollar bills, taking in return a pile of chips.

He thanked the man for stealing away his hard earned cash and took the comparatively worthless plastic chips with him as he looked around, searching for a face he did not find. Resigning himself to the possibility that it may be a night off for the one he sought, he sat at a blackjack table.

Darry was good at cards, maybe even as good as Soda, though he knew he would never hear it admitted from the gambling king's own mouth. He played the dealer for a while before winning more chips. Undaunted, the man played on. Darry won again. He was good at what he did.

Darry picked up the next set of cards and looked up to see that the losing dealer had been replaced by another. He smirked. "Hello, Steve."

The dealer's hands slowed as he shuffled a deck of cards until the motion stopped completely. His eyes took on a hard glint as he leaned forward slightly, staring Darry down. "I beg your pardon, sir," Steve said. The temperature of the room seemed to have dropped several degrees. "You must have me confused with somebody else. My name is Ramon, as you can see right here." He pointed to his nametag, but his gaze did not leave Darry's.

Darry's soft smirk did not lessen. He knew Steve, had known him almost as long as he had known Soda. They – Soda and Steve – had been in grade school together, and had been almost inseparable until Steve had been caught with quite a number of stolen cars in his slightly oversized basement. Judging by how cold he was acting towards Darry now, he did not want his boss to know he was an ex-con. That was good, Darry knew this. Steve would be instrumental in any plan he would put down.

"My mistake," Darry said calmly, collecting his chips and standing. "Table's cold anyway."

"You might want to try the lounge at the Grand, sir," Steve said, the aura of coldness dissipating slightly. "It gets busy around one."

"Thanks," Darry said, walking away without a backwards glance. He had not seen Steve for a number of years, but it would not do to blow his cover in the name of a friendly reunion. In this game, if you lost focus for one second, you were guaranteed to get hurt.

X X X X

**A/N**: I wrote this for kicks. Nothing more. You have to admit you can see Darry strolling around in a suit as the head of a sophisticated crime syndicate! Maybe if you push imagination to the limits.

I've never seen anything even close to this kind of thing in this fandom, or anywhere much at all, so I actually want honest opinions on do you want more or not. I just want to know is there that one person who would like more, because even if I get just one positive review, I'll keep posting, but if I get none, I probably won't. Like I said, I wrote this simply for kicks.

Everyone will feature in this story, and since I'm still finalizing the cast-characters list, there might have to be randoms, since there's probably more people in Oceans than Outsiders. Looking good so far, though!


	2. The Gambling King

**A/N**: Wow, people actually seem to maybe like this! I like it, but I know it's nothing intellectual like I usually write. I'm moving today, and we have some problems with internet in the new house, so I thought I'd post this real quick while my parents are out. Thanks heaps to reviewers!

X X X X

Darry glanced down at his watch. It was time – well, two minutes early, but Steve was not one of those strange people who took "punctuality" to the level of the Japanese public transport system. Where was he?

He knew he was not simply missing Steve amongst the crowds in the lounge, because there were no crowds. This place was empty – well, almost, he thought as he took another sip of the bourbon that had been served to him by one of the busty barmaids. There were no more than five or six people around, and these five or six people were watched intently by the intelligent man at the corner table. Darry was good at what he did. He glanced occasionally up from his newspaper, and then back down so as not to attract suspicion. He turned a page of the paper.

He spotted an article that caught his attention. A Las Vegas casino had been sold, sold and now pending demolition. The article was accompanied by two small photos, both faces he knew very well. The first was a man who was confident, cocky almost, one who got everything he asked for. This was the man who had bought the casino, Bob Sheldon. Old, almost dormant feelings rose in Darry's being, but he quashed them with practiced ease and moved on to the second photo.

This man was also extremely wealthy, now more so with the selling of his casino. However, Darry knew him personally, and he knew that Randy Adderson also got everything he asked for – unless Sheldon wanted it more. Randy had loved that casino like Soda loved his old convertible. The rich Vegas Soc certainly looked put out in this picture.

"Catching up on current events?"

Darry looked up to see Steve sitting down across from him, out of uniform and now dressed in those inconspicuous jeans he had always loved. In fact, Darry would wager they were still the same pair he had had as a young, arrogant car thief. "Ramon?" he asked cautiously, unsure just yet if Steve thought it was a safe place.

"Glad to meet you. Steve Randle wouldn't get by the gaming board," he said, by way of explanation. "You just out?"

"This afternoon."

Steve cracked a sarcastic grin and glanced meaningfully at the glass in Darry's hand. "And already turning over a new leaf."

Darry ignored the jibe and leaned forward. "You seen him?"

Steve's grin faded, replaced by a look of thoughtfulness. "Last I heard he was in LA. Teaching movie stars how to play cards." His gaze suddenly became suspicious. "Why? You don't have something planned already?"

"You kidding?" Darry almost laughed. "I just became a citizen again!" Steve stared at him, and Darry grinned.

"Jesus…" the car thief muttered, looking skyward. "It's tough now, our line of work. Everybody's so serious. Too many guns, too many computers… What are you going to do? Steal from ordinary people?"

Darry put on an expression of mock hurt. "That would be criminal."

"So what's left? Banks?" Steve rolled his eyes. "Banks have no money. It's all electronic. Only place that still takes cash is –"

"Casinos," said Darry.

Steve frowned at him in confusion for a brief moment before his eyes opened wide in realization and he began shaking his head. "Oh, no," he muttered.

"Oh, yes." Darry took another sip from his glass.

"When?"

"Soon. Interested?"

A slow smile spread across Steve's face. Darry recognized that look in his old friend's eyes. He had his answer.

X X X X

The cars were roaring past, their lights the only things piercing the blackness of the night. Darry's jacket flapped in the wind created by the speeding vehicles as he picked up the phone and inserted a quarter, typing in a number copied from a business card in his pocket. It only rang a couple of times before the line was picked up. "Yes, is that Officer Brooks? My name's Darrel Ocean, I'm just out, I'm supposed to check back within twenty four hours… No sir, I haven't gotten into any trouble." He drained the last of the bourbon he had managed to smuggle out of the lounge and put the glass on top of the phone. "No sir, no drinking… No, I wouldn't even think of leaving the state… Yes, I can do that, sir… Have a good night."

He hung up the phone and looked in his wallet. Was there enough? Yes, definitely. He saw a cab passing and stuck out a hand to flag it down.

"Where're you headed?" the overweight driver asked as Darry sat in the back seat. This man, thought Darry privately, was clearly unsophisticated.

"Airport," he said after quickly checking his suit pockets. Stupid prison guards did not take the passport that gave his name as Fred Tyson, though it certainly worked for him.

He smiled, sitting back in his chair and watching the buildings fly by. He had an old friend to visit.

X X X X

Soda Curtis was thinking. If one who was merely passing by saw him standing there, they would think the straight face, the deep eyes staring straight ahead, and the way he leaned back against that old car he loved so much indicated he was thinking on something deep and meaningful. He was by no means shallow, but right now his mind was more caught up with the more superficial issues. He wanted the new car stereo he had seen in a shop window that morning. His own didn't make elderly ladies cry about that "awful young man who damages people's ears".

Sure, he could steal it, and he had mulled that thought over for a while, but he had a reputation, and that rep said he didn't steal items. Only money. Then he spent that money on extravagant suits or car upgrades, and he'd leave, knowing the shopkeeper would think highly of him. Pointless? Yes. But when you grew up with parents who had gone with two meals a day to pay for your private schooling, you acquired a taste for the finer things in life.

He saw someone strolling up towards him. Ah, Topher Grace… another not-quite-yet A-list celebrity with money to throw around. Topher began to put a hand out to lean on the car, but Soda hit his arm out of the way. He didn't know where that guy's hands had been, no way was he touching Mickey Mouse.

"Hey, Patrick," said Topher.

Soda's eyebrows flew upwards. Nobody called him by his birth name, not if they knew what was good for them. "Pardon?" he said, his voice almost icy.

"Er, I meant Soda." Topher was trying to cover over his mistake. Well, supposed Soda, he had money. Yes, he could be forgiven. "Hey, I don't know if you're, er, you know, incorporated or anything, like Pat-Soda Curtis and, er, incorporated… but I reckon you should think about it, really. 'Cause I was talking to my manager yesterday –"

"Bernie?" Soda interrupted.

"No, not Bernie," continued Topher. "I mean, not – not _that_ Bernie, my business manager, he's also Bernie."

Soda raised his eyebrows again, though only slightly this time. How many people in the world were called Bernie?"

"Anyway, he was telling me that this – what we do – could be considered research for… you know, a future gig, that I should be able to write it off as a business expenditure. So he suggested that it'd be better if I wrote you a check –"

Soda scoffed. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't have gotten this suit, his apartment, or Mickey Mouse if he accepted checks, and he sure wouldn't get that new stereo if he started now. "Are you stoned?"

Topher was wringing his hands now; clearly he wanted Soda's services very, very badly. "Or – or we could keep it cash, whatever works best…"

Soda smiled. He was good at his job.

X X X X

"Alright," said Soda, surveying the nightclub interior. His pocket was now rather heavy with the combined weight of his car keys and recently fattened wallet, which he was actually immensely grateful for. Not only did he need that stereo, his fridge was down to the last half eaten block of cheese. He needed to work more often. And perhaps spend less money. No, he decided firmly, just work more. Lots more. "Who's here?"

"Er… Josh is here, Seth is here. David couldn't make it. He's got two weeks of reshoots on Lusitania because somebody just figured out forty per cent of the budget is coming from Germany."

"That's a problem," remarked Soda.

"Barry is here," said Topher as he led Soda over towards a back room.

"I thought they let him out to do that HBO thing in Vancouver." Very good, Soda. Very observant. It was always best to act observant to the client; less chance they would try and steal your wallet, or, God forbid, your car.

"Couldn't work out the dates," said Topher. Soda nodded. The movie industry was terrible at keeping a schedule. He could probably do it better, and Soda had trouble reading simply a bus schedule. Then again, Soda Curtis on a bus… No. He couldn't envision it. Maybe the younger him, the Soda before he wised up, but not now. "Oh, and he brought his girlfriend."

"Not the one from –"

"Uh-huh."

Soda raised his eyebrows slightly; he had forgotten about that show. "I quit watching when Kate left Don after his accident." He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but he had always kind of liked Don.

Topher led Soda into the back room, shutting the door behind them. Soda surveyed the gathering seated around the table. Amateurs, fucking amateurs, the lot of them. No matter how much he taught them, a real card player would spot them a mile off. Still, good money in amateurs paying you to verse them, especially when the bets were for real… "All right, everyone," he said, taking the seat at the head of the table. "Let's play some cards."

X X X X

**A/N**: You may have noticed, the brothers aren't brothers. It wouldn't work. For one thing, Darry and Soda have a love/hate relationship; we all know they just loved each other in the book; for another they don't exactly know Pony. (He's coming soon.) Lol! They're so OOC! Reviews are welcomed, feel free to tell me exactly what you think.


	3. Bad Bluff

**A/N**: Why'd this take so long? Simple. It's the most boring part of the whole fucking movie.

Thanks for reviews!

X X X X

"A hundred bucks to me," muttered Topher, eyeing his cards with a look of intense concentration in his eyes. "Ah, what the hell. Pocket change. Call."

Soda leant over slightly, towards Topher. "Why you bet a certain way is your business," he whispered. This was a basic point he was giving here, one he had given many times in the past and one Topher should have got through his head by now. "But you have to make them think you're betting for a reason. Understand?" He'd better understand. God, Soda could use a real game round now. He was too big for all this.

Seth was next. He was staring at his cards with a frown of concentration, his eyes occasionally darting around. "Seth, you know what you have," said Soda impatiently. "Looking at them doesn't change them, so leave them where they are and make your bet." Seth always took ages. He liked his money, Soda knew this, and didn't like making big bets for fear of losing it. He laughed inside. Fear. Exactly what a good poker player didn't have.

Seth frowned further, this time in displeasure, and threw in some chips. Barry had leant over towards his girlfriend and was discussing strategies with her… while giving her a lovely view of his cards. "You're showing," he said sharply. Barry sat back, giving Soda a look that reminded him vividly of the looks he'd give his parents when he was younger and he felt like he was being treated unfairly. Soda, of course, had grown up. It seemed Barry hadn't. "Yeah, I know she's your girlfriend, Barry but you can't –" He pulled his cards back up with a roll of his eyes as his girlfriend fidgeted uncomfortably. "Thank you," said Soda tersely. "Josh, deal to your left."

A waitress entered the back room with a tray of drinks. "One McCallum neat, and four bottled waters." Soda sighed for what felt like the millionth time. Poker failures and total lightweights to boot…

Seth threw his cards down on the table "Two pairs – nines and twos," he said triumphantly, stretching his arms above his head with a smile of satisfaction upon his lips.

Soda's eyes narrowed as he looked at his own cards. "You got me," he muttered, annoyed. Seth was pulling his winnings across the table towards himself. "Let's take a break, shall we?"

X X X X

Soda sipped his drink slowly, wondering idly to himself whether or not he'd have won if he had ordered a bottled water and not hard alcohol. Christ, he needed that money. He wasn't worried; there was always cash somewhere, but he'd wanted it tonight. And now he was losing a game of poker to a bunch of lightweight pansy actors. Fucking Christ… how he hated beginner's luck.

He had tried watching the dancers behind the glass, but found himself distracted by his own reflection in it. He looked tired, exhausted actually.

"How's the game going?" shouted the bartender over the music.

Soda sighed again. "It's been the longest hour of my life," he yelled back.

"What?"

"I'm running away with your wife!"

The bartender grinned. "Cool, man!" he shouted.

Soda went back to staring at his reflection, but his attention was caught by a familiar looking man weaving through the crowd behind him. Soda turned around, wondering if it really was who he thought it was. Yes, right there, the back of a head. He was going into the game room. Soda stood to follow. He missed Darry. He'd never admit it; after all, he was mad as hell at him, but he did want to see him again. Besides, last Soda heard Darry was in prison. He'd be out on parole now, and if he was here, it meant he'd violated the terms. That meant one thing. Darry had a plan. And Darry's plans usually involved large sums of money.

"Hey, Soda," said Topher as he entered. "We've got another player, if that's okay."

Sure enough, there was Darry Ocean, sitting there looking cool, calm and collected as ever. Good. Hopefully Soda could make some serious money now. Well, soon. He'd make Darry sweat a little for now. After the last "great robbery of the century" Darry had devised, Soda wanted him to know he wouldn't do anything that wasn't guaranteed to work. It sure as hell wasn't Soda Curtis's fault Darry had wound up in prison.

So he put on one of the rude, haughty looks he'd learned from the kids in private school. "What's this?" he asked.

Darry's expression didn't change. "The bouncer mentioned there was a game in progress." He raised his eyebrows significantly at Soda. "I hope I'm not intruding."

"No intrusion at all –" began Topher.

"What was his name? The bouncer's?" Soda cut Topher off.

"I don't remember," said Darry.

"A card player with amnesia," murmured Soda. "This should be fun." He dealt the cards again, and the game began.

"What do you do for a living, Mr Ocean?" asked Topher. Good God, he was inquisitive! Soda almost felt sorry for inquisitive people. Too many questions usually led to a long list of enemies if one couldn't handle it. Topher clearly couldn't. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Why should I mind?" asked Darry cheerily. "Two cards please… Actually, I just got out of prison."

Topher raised his eyebrows. "Really?" Yes, right there, Topher had stumbled onto something that, had he not been speaking to Darry, could have resulted in him being shoved up against a wall. Then, Darry had changed over the years. When Soda had met him he'd had quite a temper, but he'd tamed it since then, and now he was almost disgustingly cool. Well, to most people, at any rate. "Really…"

"Barry, you're showing again!" said Soda, half because it was true and half to divert the attention away from Darry.

"Sorry."

"What'd you, er… what did you go to prison for?" asked Josh. For actors, these people really didn't know when to shut up. The tabloids would prey on that eventually.

"I stole things," replied Darry offhandedly.

Josh seemed to have lost interest in the game, and was now staring solely at Darry. "What, like jewels? Diamonds?"

Soda pursed his lips. No, Darry didn't steal jewels. He wasn't smart enough. No, Darry Curtis stole – "Incan memorial headmasks," he said. Soda had not quite meant to speak aloud, but it didn't matter. Darry would have mentioned it anyway, and this way he could tell him he hadn't forgotten the utter cock up of their last foray in partnership. He stared straight into Darry's eyes, and Darry stared right back.

Soda could almost feel the disbelief radiating across the table. Sure enough, Josh was quick to question, "From a museum?" Idiot had probably never been to a museum in his life. They were all the same, these Socy movie stars.

"Gallery," Darry corrected.

"There a lot of money in those?" Seth asked. "Those… Incan matrimonial…"

"Headmasks," intervened Darry. "Some."

Here Soda cracked a genuine smile. "Don't let him fool you, Seth. There's bucketloads. That is if you can move the things… one card to me…" He stared very pointedly at Darry. "But you can't."

At least his former colleague looked mildly remorseful, Soda mused. "My fence seemed confident enough," he mumbled into his cards.

"If you're dealing with cash, you don't need a fence," said Soda.

"_Some_ people just lack vision," Darry said snidely. The reason they had worked so well as a team – before Darry's little mistake – was that they were very in tune with each other. They knew what one another was thinking, and they could insult each other creatively in a way nobody else could ever really pick up on. Right now they were having one of the bigger fights of their relationship.

"Probably everybody in cell block E," Soda said snidely.

Neither of the men were aware of the nervous glances between the other occupants of the room. They were slowly catching onto the fact that these two knew each other very well, and that the relationship had not ended happily. "Well," Darry said icily, "that's all behind us now." He was a little angry at Soda for making him look bad in front of these movie stars. He didn't care about them in particular. He just didn't like it when people didn't like _him_.

"I should hope so," replied Soda quietly. Maybe he'd pushed Darry far enough. After all, it had been him and not Soda paying the price of his own stupidity in prison.

Darry threw in a few chips. "I raise you five hundred." He held Soda's gaze resolutely. He'd always liked staring people down. It gave him a sense of power.

"Guys, day one; what's the first rule of poker?" Soda quizzed his pupils.

Eager to please, Barry cut in. "Er, never bet on a… er…"

"Leave emotion at the door," Topher stated.

"That's right," Soda said, and Topher glowed. "My friend here just raised me out of pique. Alright then, today's lesson: how to draw out a bluff. This is early in the game, that much money… I'm thinking he's holding nothing more than a pair of face cards." He locked eyes with Darry again. "Seth, raise him."

Seth seemed to panic a little before regaining his composure. "Okay, your hundred and… another two?" He looked at Soda for approval as he threw in his chips.

"Topher…" Soda muttered, hoping to keep the game moving along.

"Seven to me," Topher said. "Plus three. What the hell…"

Time to play teacher again… "Indeed. But be careful not to push him too high too fast. You want to keep him on a leash." Darry glared at him, and Soda smiled. "I call."

Josh was hesitating, and Soda was getting bored again. Having Darry join the game had interested him for a while, but now these amateurs were getting the better of him again. Why couldn't they just _play_? "What's that to me?" the celebrity questioned. "A thousand?"

"All you have to do is call," Soda said snippily.

Josh continued to hesitate, glancing between his cards and the pile of chips in the middle of the table. Darry smiled when he noticed this. "What? Your girlfriend got your purse?" Glaring harshly at Darry, Josh finally put in his chips. Darry glanced at his own cards, ignoring the whispering going on next to him between Seth and Topher. "Contrary to what Mr Curtis might say, _Seth_, I always check my cards before a bet." Oh yes, Darry knew he would be winning this one. "But be careful. I could tell by your face that you're holding three of a kind or better." He dug his wallet out of his pocket. "Five hundred to call. And two grand more." Time for a bit of payback, Darry decided. He stared hard at Soda, almost hoping his egoistic former partner in crime would quail.

No, Soda wouldn't. "Guys, you're free to do what you like," he said to his pupils. "It's a lot of money. But I'm staying in; he's trying to buy his way out of his bluff."

Nobody looked particularly eager to call, but Soda recognized the hungry look on their faces as desire for the large amount of money on the table. Hm… perhaps movie stars were not as wealthy as he thought… Seth finally gave in and put more of his hard earned money on the line, followed by the remainder of the amateurs. "We call," Soda said simply.

Not breaking eye contact with Soda, Darry put down his cards, revealing four nines. Soda paled, knowing he'd probably lost every one of the high profile customers in this room. He'd been _sure _Darry was bluffing! Visions of that new stereo vanished in a puff of smoke. "Shit," he muttered, trying to ignore the glares sent his way by his unhappy clientele. "Sorry guys; I was sure he was bluffing…"

Darry pulled all the money towards himself. "Thanks for the game, fellas," he said, sounding every bit like a snooty rich man who just won himself some expensive jewelry he would never wear.

Soda was going to kill him.

X X X X

**A/N**: Just to clear something up, Soda got the last name simply because I just couldn't figure out whether Rusty was the character's nickname or real name, and hence, whether Ryan was a first name or surname. No favouritism. Darry's Danny because I tried talking about the movie and accidentally said "Darry", and Soda's Rusty because… let's face it, they're both hot blondes.

Review, don't review… don't really mind too much. I like them, but let's be honest, this has no creativity and is just for fun, so I don't care.


	4. Blueprints and Plans

**A/N**: Here's another chapter, written because I've just had the first night of more than four hours sleep in two weeks. I have way too much homework on. Anyone in the Sydney area wishing to petition Forest buses to make more routes to Terrey Hills, I'd really appreciate not taking three hours to get to the closest non Japanese speaking school in the area, thanks.

X X X X

In true partners-in-crime fashion, Soda and Darry had made up by the time an hour had passed. Now they were driving along the brightly lit streets of LA in Mickey Mouse, the top down so they could enjoy the cool breeze of a summer's night. Soda was still feeling a little put out at how Darry had made him look very stupid in there, but he was angrier at himself than at Darry. In any case, he point-blank refused to let Darry drive Mickey Mouse. He needed to recover some of his lost bravado.

"That was just…" he mumbled, searching for the right word to describe his terrible lesson.

"Unprofessional," Darry supplied.

Soda glanced over at him, but there was no animosity left in his face or his tone. Darry was his best friend, despite all appearances, and he was allowed to be honest about Soda's achievements - or lack thereof - but not around other people. He changed the subject. "How was the clink? You get the cookies I sent you?"

"Why do you think I came to see you first?" It sounded terribly sad, but it was the only decent bit of mail he'd seen for the entire time he'd been in there. The only other letter he had received had been from his lawyers, and that one piece from Cherry. But he didn't want to think about his ex wife or her fairly obvious opinion of him. He pulled the money he had won from Soda's lesson from his pocket and divided it in half. "Ten grand. Half of it's yours."

Hm. Maybe Soda would get that new stereo after all. He could not resist being a little sarcastic, though. "You barge into my new workplace, ruin my professional reputation; the least you could do is tell me you've got something better for me."

Darry smirked. "I've got something better for you."

X X X X

The café was by no means posh or stylish or anywhere Soda would be caught dead sitting in, but it did the job. Those seedy all night venues could be great if one needed a quiet place for a little plotting, and this one in particular looked as though its usual patrons were the Mafia. Long enough in this business and you could tell just by looking around. The dark corners were perfect for dark deeds, and Soda knew the waitress had looked him up and down checking for concealed weapons rather than muscle tone (the clue? She'd checked Darry out as well). He wasn't a braggart or anything, but he knew a girl would rather get with him than with Darry. Well, except for one… "How's Cherry?" he asked. Their marriage hadn't been going so well, he knew that.

Darry's death glare confirmed it. "Alright…" he muttered, taking another sip of coffee. It was awful, nothing like the gourmet Italian blend he insisted upon at home, but as he had said, this place wasn't known for their coffees. "Tell me," he said, knowing Darry would know what he was talking about.

"It's tricky. Never been done before. It needs planning, a large crew." Darry had perfected the art of leaning very close to the person he was talking to, barely moving his lips so nobody else would understand their conversation. It was a little annoying, but had probably saved their hide a number of times.

"Guns?" Soda asked.

"Not loaded ones." Darry sipped the coffee, grimaced, then pushed it over towards Soda. With his coffee dependency, his younger partner would hopefully finish off both and avoid offending the waitress. She looked dangerous. "It has to be very precise. There's a lot of security. But the take –"

"What's the target?" interrupted Soda. God, it was annoying when he did that.

"Eight figures each," finished Darry.

"_What's. The. Target_?" Soda stressed. No way was he robbing any more museums for any fucking Incan matrimonial headmasks again. No fucking way.

Darry sighed, more in annoyance than anything else. He couldn't deny that Soda was the brains of their team. He may not have done too well at his posh private school, but Soda's smarts couldn't be documented with pen or paper. After all, _he _wasn't the one who had made the decision to stick with the immovable loot and get himself arrested. Soda sure wasn't going to like this. "When was the last time you went to Vegas?" he whispered.

Just as Darry had expected, Soda lowered the coffee cup to the table and stared at him with wide eyes. "What? You want to knock over a _casino_?"

Darry bit his lip. Now for the _really _hard part. He shook his head no to Soda's comment, holding up three fingers. Soda's large eyes went larger. Maybe he'd overdone the coffee a bit…

X X X X

Two hours later, Soda knew he hadn't been having some whacked-out hallucination from freak drugs the creepy waitress had slipped into his coffee. Darry really wanted to rob _three casinos_. He had dragged him out to the office building for an architectural firm belonging to some high powered CEO with enough money to buy two hundred of those car stereos Soda had his eye on. Well, he mused, they had worked for the money to get them. And that's exactly what I'm doing here: working.

Darry – who, strangely enough, knew what he was looking for – was perusing various blueprints in search of the casinos he wanted to rob, while Soda wasted time by idly changing papers from a worker's in box to their out box. The waving beam from Darry's flashlight was rather irritating to say the very least. Finally, he called Soda over, unrolling the blueprint on a spare desk.

"The vault of the Way Out," Darry muttered, pointing. Soda rolled his eyes. He may have flunked out of high school and blown all his parents' hard earned cash, but he wasn't illiterate. The bold print up the top of the paper clearly indicated that this was the Way Out.

He scanned the document briefly, taking in the more obvious security measures and especially looking out for cameras. If there was one weakness Darry had, it was cameras. He could come up with a highly elaborate robbery plan bypassing everything from motion scanners to people, but for some inexplicable reason he always forgot to check for cameras. Soda could sympathize. His own weakness was… oh wait, he'd forgotten. He didn't have a weakness. "If I'm reading these right," Soda started slowly, "and I think I _am_, this is probably the least accessible vault ever designed." He gave the blueprint another once-over. "Actually, you know what, I was wrong. It definitely is the least accessible vault ever designed."

"Yep," Darry muttered.

Soda frowned slightly as he remembered something. "You said three casinos…"

Darry put aside the blueprint to reveal the one underneath. "These feed into the cages at both Jay's and the Nightly Double." He tapped the vault with his index finger. "But every dime ends up here."

Soda thought. "The Way Out, Jay's, and… These are Bob Sheldon's places."

"Yes, they are," said Darry, a little sarcastically. "Do you think he'll mind?"

Soda scoffed. "More than somewhat. You'd need at least a dozen guys," he mused, breaking into Darry's thoughts, "doing a combination of cons…"

"Like what, do you think?" Darry asked. He liked just sitting back and waiting while Soda strung out a well thought out, probably almost perfect plan. It was easier that way.

"Well, off the top of my head, I'd say you're looking at a Boesky, a Jim Brown, a Miss Daisy, two Jethros, and a Leon Spinks. Oh, and the biggest Ella Fitzgerald ever." Soda paused and let the information sink in. "Where do you think you're going to get the money to back this?"

"As long as we're hitting these three casinos, we'll get our bankroll. Bob Sheldon has a list of enemies."

_Good point, Darry_, Soda thought, not that he'd say it out loud. That would be why they were going after Sheldon. Smart move. "But does he have enemies with loose cash and nothing to lose?" Soda asked, but needed no answer as a slow smile spread across his face. "Aha," he murmured, realizing exactly who Darry was intending to borrow cash from.

"Aha," Darry repeated, smiling and nodding secretively.

"Randy…" Soda said. Then his relaxed posture vanished. He stood up tall and looked at Darry across the table, his eyes serious. "So here's what I think," he said. "You should take this here plan and kick it around for a week or two. Sleep on it. Turn it over in your head. Then never bring it up with me again."

"Uh-huh," said Darry stupidly. "So what are you saying?"

Soda rolled his eyes; Darry could be so thick sometimes. "I'm _saying_, Darry, that this is like trying to build a house of cards on the deck of a speeding boat."

"Really?" Darry asked, feigning arrogance. "I thought it was much harder than that."

All of a sudden, the room was flooded with light. Darry and Soda both put arms up in front of their eyes to protect them from the brightness. Soda began to worry. They were raiding very confidential files in the middle of the night, and Darry hadn't even _bothered _checking for security guards? He'd said it was safe!

"Jesus, Oscar, lower it a little!" Darry cried, and Soda understood. It seemed that Darry had paid someone a slightly illegal fee for entry to the building.

"Sorry," the man – Oscar – said. "You two done up here? Find what you needed?"

"Yeah, thanks," Darry said, rolling up the blueprints. "You mind if we borrow a couple of drawings for the night? Make some copies?"

"Whatever you need," said Oscar.

Darry gathered the blueprints he wanted and Soda followed him to the door, watching as Darry pulled out the roll of bills he'd won in the poker game and took off a couple of hundreds, pressing them into the guard's hands. "Appreciate it," he said.

Soda was still deep in thought as he followed Darry to the elevators. Something still wasn't adding up. Yes, it was hugely convenient to have one vault taking all the money from three of Vegas's biggest earning casinos, but there was something about that whole plan that was itching at the back of his mind. "I need a reason," he said quietly as they waited for the elevator to arrive. "And don't say it's the money. Why do this?"

"Why not do it?" Darry said, shrugging. Soda stared at him, exasperated. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep, but Darry sure was beginning to make some stupid decisions. Darry sighed. "Because yesterday I walked out of the joint and you're colddecking TeenBeat coverboys." Soda stared at him again, and Darry knew he wasn't going to get away with it that easily. Time to re-strategize. "Because the house always wins. You play long enough, never changing stakes, the house takes you. Unless, when that perfect hand comes along, you bet big, and then you take the house."

Soda blinked. "You've been practicing that speech, haven't you?"

"A little. Did I rush it? It felt like I rushed it."

"No, it was good." They stepped onto the elevator, and Soda turned to Darry. "I wonder what Randy will say."

X X X X

**A/N**: Find out what Randy will say next time. Or go to your DVD store; he says the same thing, not to spoil it or anything.

Since I don't expect every one of my readers to be 100% well versed in Outsiders lore, I changed the casino names to names of hangouts Pony said Socs like going to in the beginning of Chapter 2 I think it was. I also chucked in the Nightly Double, because he only mentioned two hangouts.

Review, don't review, whatever works for ya. If you do happen to leave a review, I really really need help finding a Chinese acrobat who featured in The Outsiders. I mean, I was going to use Cherry and say her cheerleading got WAY out of hand, but then I realized she was Darry's ex.


	5. The Gathering

**A/N**: Kidlets, listen to your Auntie Cal. Never ever, ever _ever_, get the flu the night before your first major exam for a massively important subject. It is a _really _bad idea to do a hard exam when you woke up that morning unable to read your digital clock because you had the worst fever you've ever had.

The trouble I had with the casting of a Chinese acrobat has been resolved by some clever and ill thought out plot tweaking. Please ignore the fact that I cannot see further then a week in advance, and did not do much thinking when I started casting characters.

OH IMPORTANT: This chapter I admit I haven't read over. Please forgive me; I've had the worst week ever and have just done a double all nighter; I hope it's not too erroneous. Is that the right word?

X X X X

"You're outta your goddamn minds." Randy waved his cigar extravagantly, trying to show off the fact that he had more precious jewels on his fingers than the Queen had in Buckingham Palace. "Are you listening to me? You, both of you, are _nuts_. I know more about casino security than any man alive! I _invented _it! And it _cannot _be beaten. They got cameras, they got locks, they got timers, they got vaults. They got enough armed personnel to occupy _Paris_!" Darry gave him a significant look across the table. "Okay," Randy conceded, "bad example."

"It's never been tried," Darry offered.

Randy rolled his eyes, an over the top movement to go with everything else about Randy that could be classified as over the top. His mansion, located just outside Las Vegas, was huge enough to house the entire city, though he probably only used three or four rooms regularly. His pool, too, was oversized, and the blue was a little too vibrant to be natural. The man even had a _fountain_. God, even Soda himself thought it was too much. "Oh, it's been tried," said Randy. "A few guys even came close. You know the three most successful robberies in Vegas history?"

He leaned forward, staring at Darry and Soda intensely, looking very much like he was trying to impress them even further. He was always like this, ever since he was much younger and attended Soda's high school. They knew each other professionally even then. Soda would obtain various items through either theft or the black market, and sell them to Randy at much inflated prices. Their professional relationship blossomed when Soda later introduced him to Darry. "Number three," said Randy, still waving his cigar extravagantly. "The bronze medal. Pencilneck grabs a lockbox at the Sands. He got two steps closer to the door than any living soul before him! Then he get a taste of what NFL quarterbacks experience every Sunday. They jumped on him.

"Second most successful robbery. The Flamingo, in '71. This guy actually smelled fresh oxygen before they got him! Course, he was breathing outta a hose for the next three weeks… goddamn hippie…

"And the closest any man has gotten to robbing a Las Vegas casino: outside of Caesar's in '87. He came, he grabbed… they conquered.

"But what am I saying?" Randy continued. "You guys are pros, the _best_! I'm sure you can make it out of the casino. Of course, lest we forget, once you're out the front door, you're still in the middle of the fucking desert!"

Darry and Soda glanced at one another. Each knew what the other's face meant. It was time to start acting to get what they wanted.

They turned back to Randy, looking sufficiently chastened. "You're right," said Soda. He turned to Darry. "He's right."

Darry sighed. "Randy, you're right. Our eyes were bigger than our stomachs."

"That's exactly it," said Soda. "Pure ego."

"Yeah yeah, blah blah," said Randy rudely, waving them off.

"Thank you so much for setting us straight," Darry said in an exaggerated tone. "Sorry we bothered you."

As they stood up to leave, Darry and Soda could each sense that Randy's curiosity was starting to get the better of him. Sure enough – "Look, we all go way back," he said. "I owe you for that thing with the guy in the place, and I'll never forget it."

"It was our pleasure," said Darry, and he and Soda kept walking away.

"Give Dominic your addresses; I got some remaindered furniture I wanna send you."

Darry and Soda didn't stop. They knew Randy was just trying to make them beg for money. He'd always been like that.

"Just out of curiosity," Randy called, "which casino did you geniuses plan to rob?"

Hearing the question he had been waiting for, Darry turned back to face Randy. "The Way Out, Jay's and the Nightly Double."

Randy stood up suddenly, shock and anger radiating from him. "Those are _Bob Sheldon's _casinos!" he cried.

Soda turned to Darry. "Say, you know, he's right!" he said, with a false air of discovery.

"You guys!" Randy called, sounding like an immature elementary school brat rather than a wealthy former owner of a successful Vegas casino. "What d'you have against Bob Sheldon?"

"What do _you _have against him?" asked Darry, though he already knew the answer. "That's the real question."  
"He torpedoed my casino," said Randy, with a surprising amount of hurt in his voice. He walked slowly over towards them. "Muscled me out. Now he's gonna blow it up next week to make room for another fucking eyesore. Don't think I don't see what you're doing."

"What are we doing, Randy?" asked Soda, playing the dumb blonde.

"You gonna steal from Bob Sheldon, you better goddamn _know_. This sorta thing used to be civilized. You'd hit a guy, he'd whack you. Done. But Sheldon… At the end of this he better not think you're involved, not know your names, or think you're _dead_. Because he'll kill you, and then he'll go to work on you."

"That's why we've got to be very careful," said Darry. "We have to be precise. We have to be _well-funded_."

"Yeah, you gotta be nuts, too," said Randy. "And you're gonna need a crew as nuts as you are." He looked between the two of them. "Who d'you got in mind?"

X X X X

"Alright. Who's in?" asked Soda, sipping on his coffee. Real coffee it was, too, not the shite you got in a café. He had brewed it himself; they were lucky enough to be staying in one of the wealthier hotels that had a decent coffee machine in the room.

"Steve Randle is in," said Darry, writing the name down on the notepad in front of him. "Steve has developed a bad case of 'bronchitis' and is putting in for a transfer to warmer climates." Soda grinned at the sarcasm. "What about drivers?"

"I talked to the Winstons yesterday," Soda mused, cradling his coffee cup with both hands. "They're both in Salt Lake City, six months off the job. I got the sense they're having trouble filling the hours. They've been racing high tech remote controlled cars with monster trucks."

Darry raised his eyebrows slightly but wrote the names nevertheless. "Electronics?"

"Johnny Cade," said Soda. "Johnny's been doing freelance surveillance work of late for the FBI Mob Squad."

"How are his nerves?" Darry asked.

"Okay." Soda sipped his coffee again. "Well… not so bad you _notice_."

X X X X

In a non descript white van, a man in an FBI uniform reached out to play with a few buttons on a dashboard. He was stopped by the stuttering of a smaller man, who was sitting away from the others writing things down in a notebook. His dark hair was covering most of his face, but deep brown eyes were still visible, nervously looking about. "D-don't – don't _touch _that," he said, sounding nervous even to talk to other people.

"What?" the FBI man asked.

Johnny Cade tried to look intimidating, but it didn't come off quite as well as he'd hoped. "Do you see me just… _grabbing _the gun out of your holster and… and waving it around?"

The other three men stared at him. "Hey, Radio Shack. _Relax_."

X X X X

"Munitions," said Soda quietly.

"Phil Turentine," suggested Darry.

"Dead."

"No shit?" Darry asked, surprised. "On a job?"

"Skin cancer," said Soda.

"You send flowers?"

"Dated his wife for a while."

Darry raised his eyebrows, turning back to his list. "How about Two-Bit?"

Soda pursed his lips. "You know, there may be a slight problem with availability…"

X X X X

Two-Bit Mathews was not like other thieves. They robbed places because they were poor, or maybe just because they were too stupid or lazy to get a job anywhere else. Two-Bit robbed for the fun of it. There was nothing more exhilarating than being one step in front of the cops, always knowing you were the best there was.

Two-Bit's specialty was using stuff to their greatest potential. He could make a bomb faster than anyone else on the West Coast, and could do it with little more than a switch and a few bits of plastic. He was the best in the business, and he knew it.

Right now, Two-Bit was robbing a bank. His team had taken care of the security guards, rewired the cameras, and were now strategically placing small bombs all around the gigantic vault door. Two-Bit could feel the excitement building within him. Very soon now, very soon indeed, he'd have wealth to rival even the likes of Randy Adderson.

He smiled broadly as the explosives went off, making the door swing open. Clicking his fingers and twirling around in a little dance of victory, Two-Bit became the first of his little gang to cross the border from rags to riches.

He was also the first to set off the motion detector alarms his gang had, apparently, neglected to switch off.

"Oh, leave it _out_!" Two-Bit cried, his dance of victory ending abruptly as he heard the bells calling all manner of law enforcers. He wheeled around, rare anger now filling his being. "You _tossers_!" he spat at the two of his gang who were responsible for disabling any motion sensors in the building. "You had one job to do!"

That was the last time Two-Bit Mathews did any dealings with any bloody Yanks… give him a good, strong Englishman and the job would get done right. At this stage, he couldn't remember why he had left London in the first place.

He was escorted from the building by a bunch of coppers, hardly surprising since his team had botched up the robbery so badly. He didn't expect to be slammed against a squad car though – wasn't this supposed to be the land of freedom and liberty?

"Those bombs we found in the building," the cop hissed in his ear as he cuffed Two-Bit's hands painfully behind his back, "that was all you used during the event? Nothing else?"

"Are you accusing me of booby trapping?" Two-Bit ground out with as much force as he could muster with his cheek trapped against the roof of the car.

"Well, how 'bout it?" the cop snapped.

Then, Two-Bit heard a voice he had not heard for years. He sure was glad of it now, though. For if he wasn't mistaken, that was the voice of one Mr Patrick Curtis… "Booby traps aren't Mr Mathews' style," said Patrick behind him. Two-Bit couldn't see him yet, but he could feel the cop turn towards him. Bloody Yanks with their hands all over his body… "Isn't that right, _Keith_?" Patrick said forcefully.

Two-Bit wasn't going to have a go at him right then for getting the name wrong. He just wanted to leave. "That's right!" he said.

Behind him, Soda flashed a fake ID at the officer holding Keith, quick enough so he wouldn't be able to see it completely. "Peck, ATF," he introduced himself. "Let me venture a guess. A simple G4 mainliner, double coil, backwound, quick fuse with a drag under twenty feet." He eyed the officer carefully with his Sherlock Holmes stare, hoping he looked professional enough. "That's our man. Now tell me something else: have you checked for booby traps on his person? I mean really checked, not just for weapons." The cop looked bewildered, and Soda knew he had successfully convinced him that he was the more high ranking here. Soda took the cop's place at Keith's side and began pretending to feel for weapons. "Will you go find Griggs and tell him I need to see him?" he mumbled.

"Who?" the police officer asked, not understanding Soda's mumbling.

"Just _find _him, will you?" Soda's angry tone made the other man move off slowly, looking for a man who did not exist. Soda turned back to Keith, passing him some equipment subtly. "How fast can you put something together with that?" he asked.

"Done," said Keith, and Soda raised his eyebrows. Good thing they'd put him on the list. "Thirty seconds all right?"

"From when?"

There was a tiny click from the ground, where Keith had dropped the makeshift bomb. "Now," he whispered.

Soda grabbed Keith by the bicep, hurrying away from the crime scene and hoping they were not followed. "Ten seconds?" he asked quietly, referring to the length of time they had left before the bomb detonated.

"Not quite. Is Darry here?"

"Around the corner," answered Soda.

"Be good working with professionals again," mused Keith. "Okay, _go_."

They started running, chuckling as the squad car behind them went up in a fireball.

X X X X

"Right, so what's so special about this girl?" Darry asked Soda as they sat in the stuffy, overcrowded audience of some circus act. It wasn't exactly a circus, but Darry had seen enough to know the acrobatics were fairly average of one. He'd seen better acts in the cooler, and he really hoped Soda's girl was better than all this.

"You'll see," said Soda, grinning. Darry rolled his eyes. He hated not knowing exactly what was going on. They had brainstormed for a few days on who could possibly be their grease man with no results, and then Soda came out of nowhere with a suggestion in the middle of the night. Darry had thrown his pillow at him.

Soda had said he remembered this girl from back in his private school days. She didn't go to the same school as him, but she was the pride of Nevada in the National High School Cheerleading Championship the year a friend had dragged Soda off to Disneyworld in Orlando, where the championship was held. Soda didn't think much of cheerleading; it didn't seem like a very exciting sport to him, but this one girl had become stuck in his mind, filed away in case he ever needed her.

That was what he said, anyway. Darry wasn't buying it. The girl was in high school when Soda saw her; how did he know she hadn't let herself go and had a few kids? He wanted to rob a casino, not run a fucking nursery.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the announcer. Darry was becoming thoroughly sick of him. He hadn't had much sleep last night and his last nerve was wearing thin. "Please welcome the Incredible Evie!"

Soda clapped along with the other spectators, but Darry just sat there in stony silence as a tiny woman came onto the stage. She bowed, and Darry rolled his eyes. He could see from here that despite her size, she was a looker. No wonder Soda had chosen her. Sometimes Darry really had to wonder whether Soda had actually left puberty.

Evie climbed one of the two poles behind her like a monkey, almost simply crawling vertically. Darry knew he could never pull off the move, and Soda certainly couldn't, but it really wasn't too hard to find someone in the industry who was capable of climbing poles.

"Who else is on the list?" Darry murmured to Soda, already sick of this supposed champion.

"She _is _the list," said Soda confidently.

"_Who else_?" Darry insisted.

Soda pointed at the stage. "Watch."

Darry was soon eating his words as Evie reached the top of the pole, then flipped backwards and caught herself on another, using just her legs. She seemed to roll down to the ground, performing a few spectacular if slightly show-offy flips before finishing her routine with a huge smile and widespread arms, almost as though she thought she was God's gift to humanity raining her benevolence down upon the audience or some shit like that. Still, no matter what bad vibes Darry was receiving from her, he couldn't help but sit in open-mouthed silence for a few moments as he composed himself. "Huh," he said. "Looks like we got our grease man."

Soda nodded, smiling and clapping along with the rest of the audience. "We got our grease man."

X X X X

Back in the parking lot after viewing Evie's performance, Darry turned to Soda. "We need Syme," he said.

Soda unlocked the trunk of Mickey Mouse, putting his bag in and shutting it firmly. "He won't come. Swore off the game a year ago."

"He get religion?"

"Ulcers," Soda corrected. He couldn't remember where he picked up that bit of information. He only remembered snatches of a night out with Two-Bit. They had been very, very drunk. Two-Bit had blurted many trade secrets, one of which was his plan to rob a bank, another of which was the fact that Robert Syme suffered from ulcers. At least, Soda thought that was what he said. He wasn't going to lose face in front of Darry by looking anything less than dead certain, though.

Darry shrugged, sitting down in Soda's prized vehicle. "You could ask him."

Soda sat down in the driver's seat and turned to Darry. "Hey, I could ask him!" he suggested.

Darry rolled his eyes at Soda's listening skills, or lack thereof.

X X X X

Soda traveled all the way up to Florida for the weekend (business class of course, courtesy of one Darrel Ocean) to find Robert Syme while Darry headed back to their hotel room in Vegas to work on the plans. Syme wasn't hard to track down, and after a little asking around, Soda located the racetrack the older man liked to spend his weekends at. Ever since he was forty, old Mr Syme would claim he was old enough to start living well, and gambling was one of those ways. Not that Soda was old enough to remember him when he was forty. No, not by a long shot.

Seeing his quarry sit down and start peeling oranges on a bench facing the track, Soda sidled up beside him, placing his hands on the back of the bench.

"I saw you in the paddock before the second race, outside the men's room when I placed my bet," Syme said slowly, not even looking at Soda. "I saw you before you even got up this morning."

Soda chuckled softly. Same old Syme. He seemed to think he was CIA material or something. Well, he was right, and that was why Soda wanted him. "How ya been, Syme?" he asked.

"Never better," Syme said grumpily.

"What's with the orange?"

Syme bristled a little, though Soda didn't see anything to get upset about. "My doctor says I need vitamins."

"So why don't you take vitamins?" Soda asked, always the smartass.

Syme turned, finally looking at Soda, though the look was not complementary. "You come to give me a physical?" he growled.

Soda grinned and stood up, taking his hands off the back of the bench. "I got a box seat, come on," he invited.

Syme grunted and stood up slowly, exaggerating his stretches. Soda knew Syme thought that because he was slightly senior, he deserved the nice things in life, and for some reason, the older he acted, the more he deserved niceties. It was stupid, but useful. Acting old was exactly what they needed him to do.

They made their way over to the seats Soda had purchased (only the best for Mr Curtis – and not because he was slightly senior, either) and sat down to watch the dogs race. They each took a coffee from a passing waiter, and to keep things amicable, Soda decided not to talk shop just yet. "I thought you always drank Bloody Marys at the track," he said to Syme.

"A man shouldn't drink on the job," Syme replied gruffly.

"Who're we rooting for here, then?"

"Number four." The race began and the hounds were released, chasing the little bunny that flew around the track. Soda's eyes glazed over slightly behind his sunglasses as he spent a moment thinking about the money the man sitting next to him might just earn them. He didn't think racing was particularly interesting. He preferred gambling with cards.

"So are you going to tell me?" Syme asked out of nowhere. "Or shall I just say no and get it over with?"

Soda turned back to him, eyes now focused as he was brought back to the present. "Rob, you're the best there is. You're in Cooperstown. What do you want?"

"Nothing," Syme said, though Soda knew he was lying. Everybody wanted something. "I got a duplex now. I got wall-to-wall and a goldfish. I'm seeing a nice lady; she works the unmentionables counter at Macy's. I've changed."

That comment made Soda bristle slightly, though he didn't know why. Maybe it was the sheer wrongness of it. "Guys like us don't change, Syme. We stay sharp, we get sloppy; we don't change."

"Quit conning me," Syme griped.

"That your hound way in the back there?" Soda asked. He didn't need to ask. He knew it was.

Syme brushed it off. "He breaks late; everybody knows this." He looked worried though, and the worry multiplied when, sure enough, another dog won. Syme grumbled a little to himself and turned his attention back to Soda. "So you going to treat me like a grown-up at least, tell me what the scam is?"

Soda smiled: this was going exactly to plan. He leaned over, whispering in Syme's ear the basics of the operation and, of course, the take. Then he passed him the pre purchased plane ticket, stood up and left.

He didn't need to hear Syme's response. Soda was good at his job. He knew exactly what it was going to be.

X X X X

"And Syme makes ten," said Darry to an almost asleep Soda, who was leaning down on the bar, facing the opposite direction with his head resting on his hands. Poor thing worked too hard. Oh, Darry had better never let that one though slip past his lips, because he knew Soda would forget his exhaustion and work a lot harder to hurt him if it did. "Ten ought to do it, don't you think?"

Soda said nothing.

"You think we need one more?" Darry questioned.

Still, Soda said nothing.

"You think we need one more," Darry declared.

Soda did not summon the energy to respond.

"Alright. We'll get one more."

X X X X

Darry watched one of the smallest passengers on the train as he held a pen between his teeth, reading a page of notes. He had made Soda stay at the hotel for this: for one, it was Darry and not Soda who knew this kid's father from way back, for another, Soda had only returned from Florida the day before. Darry had stopped him coming only by telling him he needed to stay back and make sure Darry had made no mistakes marking guard positions on the blueprints. He himself knew he had made no error, but Soda was just so damn critical of him that he fell for it.

The train lurched, and the kid lurched forward with it, slipping a hand quickly within his neighbour's coat and withdrawing the wallet before righting himself, apologizing for his slip. Very smooth. Oh yes, Darry knew this one would do well indeed.

The kid got off at the next stop, and Darry followed him. He had learned a few tricks in his day, and used them now to deftly relieve the kid of the stolen wallet and replace it with a business card, directing him where to go. That having been done, Darry set off himself for the pub in question.

He was feeling rather tired, so he ordered a coffee as he waited, even though he was always determined never to end up an addict like Soda. If that guy ever got near drugs he'd better watch out, because Darry knew Soda would get addicted on sight. He wasn't a person who had much restraint.

The door opened, and the boy from the train walked in. Darry waved him over, not disguising the fact that it was he who had pickpocketed the master pickpocket. This was his bait, now he just had to wait for the bite.

"Hello, Ponyboy," he said, and Ponyboy's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Have a seat."

Pony did as he was directed, pulling out the chair slowly and making himself comfortable. "Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend of Bobby Cauldwell's," Darry explained. Well… he wasn't really _friends _with the kid's father. They'd had a… relationship, that was certain, but it was more professional than anything else. "Bobby told me about you. He said you have the best set of hands he ever saw. I didn't expect to find you working wallets on the subway."

Pony bristled. "That wasn't work; that was practice," he said.

Darry reached into his pocket and withdrew a plane ticket, placing it on the table. "You're either in or you're out, right now." He kept his hand on the ticket.

"What is it?"

Darry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It couldn't be more obvious it was the kid's first real job. He remembered Soda's first job. God, he had messed that up. Well, it had been Darry who got pulled over by the cops and was late to be the getaway car, but Soda had still taken the rap for it, and that made it his fault. He was just lucky he wasn't considered an adult in the eyes of the law at the time. "A plane ticket. A job offer."

"You're pretty trusting pretty fast," Pony observed.

"Bobby has faith in you."

"Fathers are like that," Pony mused. "He didn't tell you?" Darry shook his head, knowing what his younger colleague was referring to. "He doesn't like me trading on his name."

"You do this job, he'll be trading on yours," Darry promised. It was true. This job wasn't entirely about money.

"What if I say no?" Ponyboy asked.

Ah yes, get all the facts, just like his father. Had he not heard when Darry said "right now"? "Then we'll get someone else who won't be quite as good and you can go back to feeling up stockbrokers – can we get the check, please?" he added to the passing waitress. Very nice, Darry, he complimented himself. Gives an essence of _finality of opportunity_. And Soda said he was illiterate…

Darry looked down, and realized that as he had signaled to the waitress, Ponyboy had swiped the plane ticket right from under his hand. "That's the best lift I've seen you make yet," he said, and he meant it.

"Vegas, huh?" asked Pony.

"America's playground," said Darry.

X X X X

**A/N**: Review, don't review, whatever floats ya boat.

Actually, I just failed English (really, I did. The book was too depressing to read, so my essay was shite). So please review. I've now failed two subjects. Cal needs compliments.


End file.
